


70% Cocoa

by Vertiga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Chocolate, Food Sex, Language Kink, M/M, Rimming, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by this quote from Dylan Moran: "I’d like to be lying face down with my mouth full of chocolate, and something lovely happening to my lower half."</p>
            </blockquote>





	70% Cocoa

‘Jesus, Mycroft! I can feel every one of your ribs.’ Greg Lestrade drew back from lavishing soft kisses down Mycroft’s freckled side and stared accusingly at him. Straddling Mycroft’s hips, his lover’s long body stretched beneath him, he had suddenly realised that there was a lot less of said lover than there had been a few months before.

Mycroft Holmes looked up at him, satisfaction evident even through the desire in his eyes, and Greg knew at once that this was no accident or symptom of a too-stressful career.

Greg frowned. ‘No, that’s not a compliment, My. Are you trying to starve yourself to death?’ He ran blunt fingers over the delicate ribs, horrified by their newfound prominence.

‘Of course not. There’s no need for dramatics,’ the shadowy bureaucrat said carelessly. ‘I have simply been watching what I eat.’ Seeing how concerned Greg looked, a trace of insecurity flitted across his features. ‘I thought you might prefer me to be a little thinner.’

‘If I wanted to go to bed with a bag of bones I’d go and shag your brother,’ Greg said, shaking his head.

Mycroft made a moue of distaste – they had long since agreed that Sherlock was a taboo, not to be mentioned in the bedroom. They both needed something in their lives which did not include the consulting detective.

‘I’m serious, My,’ Greg said, cupping one hand under Mycroft’s chin and forcing him to keep eye-contact. ‘You’ll make yourself ill. I love you exactly as you are – well, exactly as you were, half a stone or so ago. Never doubt that.’ The silver-haired inspector leaned down and laid a soft kiss on Mycroft’s pale lips as though laying proof before a jury. ‘Promise me you won’t lose any more weight?’ he whispered, still just inches away.

Mycroft sighed. ‘As you wish,’ he promised, then stretched upwards for a deeper kiss.

~~~

What with one thing and another (serial murders, the Libyan uprising, Sherlock ending up in hospital again) it is almost a month before Mycroft and Greg find their schedules match long enough for more than a quick fumble in the back of Mycroft’s sleek black car on the way to another meeting. They finally make it back to Greg’s flat, a whole night ahead of them, and the door has barely closed on the world before clothes start flying.

Mycroft fists his hands in Greg’s thick hair and groans as the more solid man crowds him up against the door and tears off his shirt. It was silk, probably ruinously expensive, and Greg can hardly think of a more gorgeous noise than the sound it makes as he carelessly rips it off.  
He kisses his way down Mycroft’s neck and chest, hot lips pausing to suck wetly on each of his nipples.

‘Gregory...’ the name emerges as little more than a moan, and Mycroft drags the man upright so he can kiss him properly. Their lips crush together so hard it hurts, but Greg’s tongue is in Mycroft’s mouth and he finds he couldn’t care less about the pain. He shoves his thigh between Mycroft’s legs, forcing his knees wider, and grinds their hips together, groaning at the sweet friction against his cock. Mycroft’s cloth-sheathed erection is pressed hard against his thigh, and Greg can’t wait any longer.

‘Want you,’ he growls in Mycroft’s ear, enjoying the little shiver that passes over those careful features. ‘Want to take you to pieces. It’s been too long since I heard you lose your perfect English.’ Something only Greg knows, much to his delight, is that the British government has the endearing habit of lapsing into other languages when he’s teetering on the brink of coming. French is Greg’s favourite – the smooth syllables breathy and utterly pornographic as Mycroft writhes under him.

‘Want you too,’ Mycroft breathes back, rolling his hips for emphasis, making them both groan in unison.

‘Bedroom,’ Greg growls, and Mycroft goes eagerly, reaching back to drag Greg along by the edge of his undone shirt.

They are both shoeless, shirtless and painfully hard by the time they reach the bedroom, and Greg wastes no time in undoing Mycroft’s belt, helping him out of his trousers and boxers and pushing him firmly onto the bed. Mycroft is not always so submissive, but tonight Greg needs this, and Mycroft is more than perceptive enough to see it. Not that he minds - it does Mycroft no harm to let someone else take control, after a long day of controlling absolutely everything.

Greg strips off and follows Mycroft onto the sheets, straddling his hips and meeting his eager mouth for another searing kiss. Mycroft’s clever fingers tease his nipples until Greg growls again, breaking the kiss and moving down to suck a purple mark into Mycroft’s pale throat.

Mycroft groans and slides his hand down over Greg’s firm stomach, trailing his fingers through the tight curls between his legs and giving his hot length an encouraging stroke.

‘Fuck!’ Greg gasps, as Mycroft squeezes his cock, rubbing his thumb over the head. If he keeps that up, Greg won’t last five minutes, so defensive measures are called for.

Greg seizes Mycroft’s wrists and drags his hands away. He rocks his hips, sliding their burning skin together, the friction almost too much, too dry, but Mycroft moans beautifully and Greg is compelled to do it again.

He raises Mycroft’s arms, pinning both his wrists above his head, and licks a long stripe down the centre of his chest, breathing in the faint musk of his lover’s skin. His tongue reaches Mycroft’s belly button, dips in for a taste. Mycroft sucks in a breath in shock and Greg freezes, suddenly painfully aware of the hollowness beneath him.

The detective leans back at once, letting go of Mycroft’s arms, his arousal dimming just a little.

‘Stay still,’ he orders, and takes a good look at the man beneath him. Stretched out like this, Mycroft’s collarbones are like rulers. His ribs are like railings, his hipbones like freckle-scattered knives. The soft stomach that Greg once so enjoyed nibbling is hollowed, slightly concave between those sharp hips.

‘Jesus,’ he sighs. ‘Jesus Christ, My, look at you.’

Mycroft sighs at the stricken look on Greg’s broad face. ‘It was not deliberate this time, I assure you. I have not forgotten my promise. It is simply that, with North Africa, and the Occupy protests, I have been rather busy. I may have missed a meal or two.’

‘Or twenty, or all of them...’ Greg murmurs. He resolves to have words with Mycroft’s assistant about preventing her employer from working himself to death. He sits for a few moments, thinking, then swings his leg over and gets off the bed.

Mycroft props himself up on his elbows, looking faintly hurt at this abandonment.

‘Tomorrow, I’m not letting you leave this flat until you’re properly stuffed with bacon and eggs,’ Greg promises, hands on hips.

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow, obviously thinking of a joke along the lines of “hoping to be a different kind of stuffed”, but he would never be vulgar enough to actually say it. He doesn’t have to – Greg grins anyway.

‘But for now, I don’t feel right wearing you out without feeding you first. Stay there,’ he orders again, and strides out of the bedroom.

Within a minute he is back again, a large bar of high-cocoa dark chocolate in his hands. It is the richest thing he has to hand on such short notice, and he makes a mental note to stock up on biscuits and protein bars to feed Mycroft up with.

Mycroft drapes himself over Greg’s shoulders as he sits on the edge of the bed, feathering light kisses down the nape of his neck. His arousal has hardly subsided, and Greg feels Mycroft’s hard prick rubbing against the cleft of his arse as he rips open the card and foil wrapping.  
The rich aroma of chocolate wafts through the room and Greg breathes deeply, imagining what it would be like to taste Mycroft and chocolate in one mouthful, licking dark, melted chocolate from pale, salty skin. The idea, coupled with Mycroft’s insistent attentions, does wonders to restore his flagging erection, and he is thoroughly in the mood again by the time he turns and holds out the first piece of chocolate to Mycroft.

Mycroft ignores the offering in favour of nibbling on Greg’s ear, a ploy which almost succeeds in distracting him. Greg groans and tips his head back to give Mycroft access to his throat, and forgets about the chocolate until it begins to melt, slipping between his fingertips.

Remembering, he sucks the little square into his mouth, turns to face Mycroft and kisses him, open-mouthed and dirty. He plunders Mycroft’s mouth with his tongue, earning a soft, needy hum from the too-thin man, then slips the chocolate past Mycroft’s teeth and pulls away, leaving him gasping, chocolate melting on his tongue.

‘Sneaky,’ Mycroft chides, then sucks hard on the chocolate and closes his eyes in bliss. ‘Ohhh, tastes so good!’ he groans. For all that his obsessive work has left him malnourished, Mycroft does love good food. Greg can hardly imagine how much Mycroft is enjoying his first taste of chocolate in god-knows how long.

Mycroft hollows his cheeks and Greg’s cock twitches, almost painfully hard. Right then... ‘Lie down. On your front.’

Mycroft does as he’s told, eyes tight shut as the scent of chocolate curls thickly around them.

Greg sets two squares of the aromatic chocolate in the hollow just above Mycroft’s arse, letting his body heat melt them slowly, then palms most of the rest.

‘Open,’ he commands, leaning down over his prone lover. Mycroft does, expecting perhaps one or two pieces, and almost chokes as Greg claps a hand over his open lips and fills his mouth completely.

‘Mmmf!’ he protests, but Greg does not let him spit anything out.

‘Suck it, My. Suck it hard – I’m not going to let you come until your mouth is empty,’ Greg promises, sliding his other hand down between the cheeks of Mycroft’s arse to make his intentions clear.

Mycroft groans around the chocolate and works his mouth obscenely, trying to encourage the chocolate to melt faster.

Greg watches him for a moment, mouth hanging open in sympathy, then reaches for the lube on the bedside table and slicks his fingers.  
He lifts Mycroft’s hips, urging him onto knees and elbows, then very slowly works his index finger into Mycroft’s puckered entrance. The muscle gives, sucking his finger in almost as greedily as Mycroft is sucking his chocolate, and Greg quickly adds a second finger, burying them to the hilt. He crooks his fingers, searching. All at once, Mycroft arches his back, a throaty groan and a chocolaty slurp escaping him.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Greg murmurs, breathless with his own arousal. He crooks his fingers again, drawing another desperate, wet noise, then sets a steady rhythm. He fucks Mycroft mercilessly with his fingers, twisting at the end of every deep thrust, scissoring his fingers apart to work his lover’s body open.

Mycroft bucks against him, rumbling groans and obscene slurps greeting every graze against the sweet spot inside him. The air is warm and thick with chocolate and the smell of the pre-cum dripping freely from Mycroft’s desperate erection. Greg knows that if he could speak, Mycroft would be begging to be touched.

Greg strokes hard against Mycroft’s prostate, twice, three times, drawing a breathless gurgle and a keening whine from his writhing lover, then pulls out with a quiet sucking noise that makes his own cock twitch.

‘I hope you’re nearly finished, My. I’m going to fuck you in a minute, and I want to hear you beg,’ Greg says, stroking himself and groaning at the contact.

‘Mmmmm,’ Mycroft moans in answer, bucking backwards in pursuit of Greg’s torturous touch.

Greg dips his fingers in the now melted pool of chocolate at the base of Mycroft’s spine and leaves a long stripe of chocolate down the cleft of that pale arse. He licks his fingers, growls at the rich taste of cocoa, then bends and runs his tongue along the trail of chocolate.

Keening, Mycroft bucks back against him, and Greg licks and sucks at the sensitive flesh of Mycroft’s arse, working around his loosened entrance before suddenly darting his tongue inside. Mycroft almost shouts, then slurps hurriedly to keep from dribbling all over the bed.

‘Fuck...’ Greg breathes, the noise going straight to his cock, then sets about fucking Mycroft with his tongue. He darts a pointed tongue as far in as it will go, then curls it out and licks each of the ridges of the muscle, smeared with chocolate, lube and sweat.

Mycroft’s groans grow more and more desperate, hips rocking back into Greg’s mouth, thighs trembling with tension.

Just as Greg is beginning to think he will explode if he doesn’t get to bury himself in Mycroft right-bloody-now, there is a loud swallowing noise and Mycroft’s mouth is empty.

‘For God’s sake, do it!’ he cries out, utterly abandoned. ‘Fuck me, Gregory, for God’s sake!’

‘Finally!’ Greg huffs, pulling his mouth away. He pauses for just long enough to palm some lube and slick himself up, then pushes into Mycroft in one long forward stroke.

Mycroft shouts as though he is being murdered, and Greg echoes him with a string of profanity.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Greg says again, panting raggedly as he waits to Mycroft to relax. When Mycroft rocks back encouragingly, he pulls almost all the way out, then starts thrusting fast and hard into Mycroft’s eager body. He has waited too long to want to draw this out slowly. He just wants to fuck Mycroft into the sweaty, chocolate-streaked mattress.

‘Oh, God, oh, yes!’ Mycroft wails with each gloriously deep thrust. ‘Touch me, please, fucking touch me! Touche moi, Gregoire, je t’en prie!’

Greg’s long-awaited orgasm is coiling in his belly, his balls tightening, pleasure whiting out his brain. He reaches round and takes Mycroft’s throbbing cock in hand, pumps in time with his thrusts, fast and rough, and in five strokes Mycroft is coming, striping his chest and Greg’s hand.

‘Fils d’une pute, c’est boooon,’ Mycroft moans out, and the language goes straight to Greg’s groin. Clenching muscles seize around Greg and he follows his lover over the brink, coming deep inside him with a long groan of ecstasy. Mycroft’s elbows give out and they land heavily on the bed, still locked together as they shudder through the aftershocks.

By the time Greg pulls out and wipes them off, long minutes afterwards, Mycroft seems to have regained his grip on English, much to Gregory’s disappointment.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, planting a soft kiss on Mycroft’s bruised-looking lips.

Mycroft hums softly. ‘Very much so. I may never again be able to eat chocolate in public without an embarrassing physical reaction, however.’

Greg grins. ‘Sorry about that.’

Mycroft smiles in return. ‘No apologies necessary. I think it’s worth the trade, don’t you?’


End file.
